Complete Works of J. M. Barrie

by Unknown

  (A shrinking movement from one of them draws his attention, and he recognises in her the woman of whom he has been speaking. He sees her in fine clothing and he grows stern.)

  I feel I can’t be mistaken; it was you I met in the wood? Have you been playing some trick on me? (To the others.) It was for her I wanted the food.

  ALICE (her hand guarding the place where his gift lies). Have you come to take hack the money you gave me?

  DEARTH. Your dress! You were almost in rags when I saw you outside.

  ALICE (frightened as she discovers how she is now attired). I don’t ... understand ...

  COADE (gravely enough). For that matter, Dearth, I daresay you were different in the wood, too.

  (DEARTH sees his own clothing.)

  DEARTH. What...!

  ALICE (frightened). Where am I? (To Mrs. Coade.) I seem to know you ... do I?

  MRS. COADE (motherly). Yes, you do; hold my hand, and you will soon remember all about it.

  JOANNA. I am afraid, Mr. Dearth, it is harder for you than for the rest of us.

  PURDIE (looking away). I wish I could help you, but I can’t; I am a rotter.

  MABEL. We are awfully sorry. Don’t you remember ... Midsummer Eve?

  DEARTH (controlling himself). Midsummer Eve? This room. Yes, this room ... You was it you? ... were going out to look for something ... The tree of knowledge, wasn’t it? Somebody wanted me to go, too ... Who was that? A lady, I think ... Why did she ask me to go? What was I doing here? I was smoking a cigar ... I laid it down, there ... (He finds the cigar.) Who was the lady?

  ALICE (feebly). Something about a second chance.

  MRS. COADE. Yes, you poor dear, you thought you could make so much of it.

  DEARTH. A lady who didn’t like me — (With conviction.) She had good reasons, too — but what were they...?

  ALICE. A little old man! He did it. What did he do?

  (The hammer is raised.)

  DEARTH. I am ... it is coming back — I am not the man I thought myself.

  ALICE. I am not Mrs. Finch-Fallowe. Who am I?

  DEARTH (staring at her). You were that lady.

  ALICE. It is you — my husband!

  (She is overcome.)

  MRS. COADE. My dear, you are much better off, so far as I can see, than if you were Mrs. Finch-Fallowe.

  ALICE (with passionate knowledge). Yes, yes indeed! (Generously.) But he isn’t.

  DEARTH. Alice! ... I — (He tries to smile.) I didn’t know you when I was in the wood with Margaret. She ... she ... Margaret... (The hammer falls.)

  O my God!

  (He buries his face in his hands.)

  ALICE. I wish — I wish —

  (She presses his shoulder fiercely and then stalks out by the door.)

  PURDIE (to LOB, after a time). You old ruffian.

  DEARTH. No, I am rather fond of him, our lonely, friendly little host. Lob, I thank thee for that hour.

  (The seedy-looking fellow passes from the scene.)

  COADE. Did you see that his hand is shaking again?

  PURDIE. The watery eye has come back.

  JOANNA. And yet they are both quite nice people.

  PURDIE (finding the tragedy of it). We are all quite nice people.

  MABEL. If she were not such a savage!

  PURDIE. I daresay there is nothing the matter with her except that she would always choose the wrong man, good man or bad man, but the wrong man for her.

  COADE. We can’t change.

  MABEL. Jack says the brave ones can.

  JOANNA. ‘The ones with the thin bright faces.’

  MABEL. Then there is hope for you and me, Jack.

  PURDIE (ignobly). I don’t expect so.

  JOANNA (wandering about the room, like one renewing acquaintance with it after returning from a journey). Hadn’t we better go to bed? It must be getting late.

  PURDIE. Hold on to bed! (They all brighten.)

  MATEY (entering). Breakfast is quite ready.

  (They exclaim.)

  LADY CAROLINE. My watch has stopped.

  JOANNA. And mine. Just as well perhaps!

  MABEL. There is a smell of coffee.

  (The gloom continues to lift.)

  COADE. Come along, Coady; I do hope you have not been tiring your foot.

  MRS. COADE. I shall give it a good rest tomorrow, dear.

  MATEY. I have given your egg six minutes, ma’am.

  (They set forth once more upon the eternal round. The curious JOANNA remains behind.)

  JOANNA. A strange experiment, Matey; does it ever have any permanent effect?

  MATEY (on whom it has had none). So far as I know, not often, miss; but, I believe, once in a while.

  (There is hope in this for the brave ones. If we could wait long enough we might see the DEARTHS breasting their way into the light.)

  He could tell you.

  (The elusive person thus referred to kicks responsively, meaning perhaps that none of the others will change till there is a tap from another hammer. But when MATEY goes to rout him from his chair he is no longer there. His disappearance is no shock to MATEY, who shrugs his shoulders and opens the windows to let in the glory of a summer morning. The garden has returned, and our queer little hero is busy at work among his flowers. A lark is rising.)

  Curtain

  A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE

  Produced at Wyndham’s Theatre on June 23, 1918, with the following cast:

  Mr. Don...SIR JOHNSTON FORBES-ROBERTSON

  Mr. Rogers...H.V. ESMOND

  Major Armitage...Dawson Milward

  Mrs. Don...LILIAN BRAITHWAITE

  Laura Bell.,..FAITH CELLI

  Another...GERALD DU MAURIER

  A WELL-REMEMBERED VOICE

  OUT of the darkness comes the voice of a woman speaking to her dead son.

  ‘But that was against your wish, was it not? Was that against your wish? Would you prefer me not to ask that question?’ The room is so dark that we cannot see her. All we know is that she is one of four shapes gathered round a small table. Beyond the darkness is a great ingle-nook, in which is seated on a settle a man of fifty. Him we can discern fitfully by the light of the fire. It is not sufficiently bright to enable him to read, but an evening paper lies on his knee. He is paying no attention to the party round the table. When he hears their voices it is only as empty sounds. The mother continues. ‘Perhaps I am putting the question in the wrong way. Are you not able to tell us any more?’ A man’s voice breaks in. ‘There was a distinct movement that time, but it is so irregular.”I thought so, but please don’t talk. Do you want to tell us more? Is it that you can’t hear me distinctly? He seems to want to tell us more, but something prevents him.”In any case, Mrs. Don, it is extraordinary. This is the first séance I have ever taken part in, but I must believe now.”Of course, Major, these are the simplest manifestations. They are only the first step. But if we are to go on, the less we talk the better. Shall we go on? It is not agitating you too much, Laura?’ A girl answers. ‘There was a moment when I — but I wish I was braver. I think it is partly the darkness. I suppose we can’t have a little light?”Certainly we can, dear. Darkness is quite unnecessary, but I think it helps one to concentrate.’ The Major lights a lamp, and though it casts shadows we see now that the room is an artist’s studio. The silent figure in the ingle-nook is the artist. Mrs. Don is his wife; the two men are Major Armitage and an older friend, Mr. Rogers. The girl is Laura Bell. These four are sitting round the table, their hands touching: they are endeavouring to commune with one who has ‘crossed the gulf.’ The Major and Mr. Rogers are but passing shadows in the play, and even nice Laura is only to flit across its few pages for a moment on her way to happier things. We scarcely notice those three in the presence of Mrs. Don, the gracious, the beautiful, the sympathetic, whose magnetic force and charm are such that we wish to sit at her feet at once. She is intellectual, but with a disarming smile; religious, but so charitable; masterful, and yet loved of all. None is perfec
t, and there must be a flaw in her somewhere, but to find it would necessitate such a rummage among her many adornments as there is now no time for. Perhaps we may come upon it accidentally in the course of the play. She is younger than Mr. Don, who, despite her efforts for many years to cover his deficiencies, is a man of no great account in a household where the bigger personality of his wife swallows him like an Aaron’s rod. Mr. Don’s deficiencies! She used to try very hard, or fairly hard, to conceal them from Dick; but Dick knew. His mother was his chum. All the lovely things which happened in that house in the days when Dick was alive were between him and her; those two shut the door softly on old Don, always anxious not to hurt his feelings, and then ran into each other’s arms. In the better light Mr. Don is now able to read his paper if he chooses. If he has forgotten the party at the table, they have equally forgotten him.

  MRS. DON. You have not gone away, have you? We must be patient. Are you still there?

  ROGERS. I think I felt a movement.

  MRS. DON. Don’t talk, please. Are you still there?

  (The table moves.)

  Yes! It is your mother who is speaking; do you understand that?

  (The table moves.)

  Yes. What shall I ask him now?

  ROGERS. We leave it to you, Mrs. Don.

  MRS. DON. Have you any message you want to send us? Yes. Is it important? Yes. Are we to spell it out in the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter of the first word A? Is it B?

  (She continues through the alphabet to L, when the table responds. Similarly she finds that the second letter is O.)

  Is the word Love? Yes. But I don’t understand that movement. You are not displeased with us, are you? No. Does the second word begin with A? — with B? Yes.

  (The second word is spelt out Bade and the third Me.)

  Love Bade Me — If it is a quotation, I believe I know it! Is the fourth word Welcome? Yes.

  LAURA. Love Bade Me Welcome.

  MRS. DON. That movement again! Don’t you want me to go on?

  LAURA. Let us stop.

  MRS. DON. Not unless he wishes it. Why are those words so important? Does the message end there? Is any one working against you? Some one antagonistic? Yes. Not one of ourselves, surely? No. Is it any one we know? Yes. Can I get the name in the usual way? Yes. Is the first letter of this person’s name A? — B? —

  (It proves to be F. One begins to notice a quaint peculiarity > of MRS. don’s. She is so accustomed to homage that she expects a prompt response even from the shades.)

  Is the second letter A?

  (The table moves.)

  FA. Fa — ?

  (She is suddenly enlightened.)

  Is the word Father? Yes.

  (They all turn and look for the first time at mr don. He has heard, and rises apologetically.)

  MR. DON (distressed). I had no intention — Should I go away, Grace?

  (She answers sweetly without a trace of the annoyance she must surely feel.)

  MRS. DON. Perhaps you had better, Robert.

  ROGERS. I suppose it is because he is an unbeliever? He is not openly antagonistic, is he?

  MRS. DON (sadly enough). I am afraid he is.

  (They tend to discuss the criminal as if he was not present.)

  MAJOR. But he must admit that we do get messages.

  MRS. DON (reluctantly). He says we think we do. He says they would not want to communicate with us if they had such trivial things to say.

  ROGERS. But we are only on the threshold, Don. This is just a beginning.

  LAURA. Didn’t you hear, Mr. Don—’ Love Bade Me Welcome’?

  MR. DON. Does that strike you as important, Laura?

  LAURA. He said it was.

  MRS. DON. It might be very important to him, though we don’t understand why.

  (She speaks gently, but there is an obstinacy in him, despite his meekness.)

  MR. DON. I didn’t mean to be antagonistic, Grace. I thought — I wasn’t thinking of it at all.

  MRS. DON. Not thinking of Dick, Robert? And it was only five months ago!

  MR DON (who is somehow, without meaning it, always in the wrong). I’ll go.

  ROGERS. A boy wouldn’t turn his father out. Ask him.

  MR. DON (forlornly). As to that — as to that —

  MRS. DON. I shall ask him if you wish me to, Robert MR. DON. No, don’t.

  ROGERS. It can’t worry you as you are a disbeliever.

  MR. DON. No, but — I shouldn’t like you to think that he sent me away.

  ROGERS. He won’t. Will he, Mrs. Don?

  MR. DON (knowing what her silence implies). You see, Dick and I were not very — no quarrel or anything of that sort — but I — I didn’t much matter to Dick. I’m too old, perhaps.

  MRS. DON (gently). I won’t ask him, Robert, if you would prefer me not to.

  MR. DON. I’ll go.

  MRS. DON. I’m afraid it is too late now. (She turns away from earthly things.) Do you want me to break off?

  (The table moves.)

  Yes. Do you send me your love, Dick? Yes. And to Laura? Yes. (She raises her eyes to don, and hesitates.)

  Shall I ask him — ?

  MR. DON. No, no, don’t.

  ROGERS. It would be all right, Don.

  MR. DON. I don’t know.

  (They leave the table.)

  LAURA (a little agitated). May I go to my room, Mrs. Don? I feel I — should like to be alone.

  MRS. DON. Yes, yes, Laura dear. I shall come in and see you.

  (laura bids them goodnight and goes. She likes mr don, she strokes his hand when he holds it out to her, but she can’t help saying, ‘Oh, Mr. Don, how could you?’)

  ROGERS. I think we must all want to be alone after such an evening. I shall say goodnight, Mrs. Don.

  MAJOR. Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find me a silent companion. One doesn’t want to talk ordinary things tonight. Rather not. Thanks, awfully.

  ROGERS. Goodnight, Don. It’s a pity, you know; a bit hard on your wife MR. DON. Goodnight, Rogers. Goodnight, Major.

  (The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to each other. He is depressed because he has spoilt things for her. She is not angry. She knows that he can’t help being as he is, and that there are fine spaces in her mind where his thoughts can never walk with hers. But she would forgive him seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is standing looking at a case of fishingrods against the wall. There is a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them.)

  MR DON (as if somehow they were evidence against him). Dick’s fishingrods.

  MRS. DON (forgivingly). I hope you don’t mind my keeping them in the studio, Robert. They are sacred things to me.

  MR. DON. That’s all right, Grace.

  MRS. DON. I think I shall go to Laura now.

  MR. DON (in his inexpressive way). Yes.

  MRS. DON. Poor child!

  MR. DON. I’m afraid I hurt her.

  MRS. DON. Dick wouldn’t have liked it — but Dick’s gone.

  (She looks a little wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can sometimes wonder a little still.) I suppose you will resume your evening paper!

  (He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is the reason why we write this chapter in his life.)

  MR DON. Why not, Grace?

  (She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the answer better than he.)

  MRS. DON. I suppose it is just that a son is so much more to a mother than to a father.

  MR. DON. I dare say.

  MRS. DON (a little gust of passion shaking her). How you can read about the war nowadays!

  MR. DON (firmly to her — he has had to say it a good many times to himself). I’m not going to give in. (Apologetically) I am so sorry I was in the way, Grace. I wasn’t scouting you, or anything of that sort. It is just that I can’t believe in it.